“Hey man, I just found this amazing berry! Look at it, it´s huge! I don´t know why your are still wasting your time searching over there. Just get here, man!”

This guy, always shouting and boasting, I am really tired of it. Not for once he can shut up about his stupid berries. We are all searching here, we get it. It´s not like you are the first one to ever find something. For days we have been flying around these woods, jumping from twig to twig, always blindly following the one who finds something. What´s the sense of flying in a group when everyone is just looking at the same spot? Why can´t we split up? And why the hell am I not just going somewhere else?

“Hey man, I just found this amazing berry!”

Here we go again. Again, the same spot. Same people. Why are the places wherever we find something special attracting everyone else to come there? Are we just blindly searching for thrill, for food, for entertainment? What do we expect to happen there? It is the same place, it is the same people. Isn´t craziness defined by repeating the same action and expecting a different result each time? Are we all just going crazy?

“Hey man, I just found this amazing berry!”

Are we crazy or just so occupied with whatever we are trying to do and trying to show to others that we don´t realise that we are stuck in repeating the same routine? Why do we have spots where everyone is, searching for the same thing? Why the hell is nobody leaving this devil´s circle? Why not me?

“Hey man, I just found this amazing berry!”

We move in flocks, we are born in flocks, we die in flocks. Twig to twig, tree to tree. I don´t even remember where I have been lately. I have just a memory what the others have done, what they found, on the search for food in the autumn. Life is hard for a tiny bird in winter. Maybe I can´t survive on my own. Maybe I won´t find anything. And if I find something, who can I tell about it? Am I even finding something when I can´t tell anyone? Do I exist when there is no other bird around me? Is that why we constantly exclaim anything, chirping? Is it just the fear of the silence, the darkness, the loneliness?

Hey man, I just found this huge nut!

Get over here.

She was sitting on a bench with a full package of toast. Silently sobbing, she felt sad and angry. The ducks and pidgeons around here were more interested in the bag of bread than her, still it felt nice not to sit around alone in a park. “A little like being connected to nature”, she said and sniffed her nose.

She was hurt like so many before her, she knew that it would end this way. Still, it was a great ride. The places, the food, the sheer speed of the way of life. If you are speeding through days like this, it is no wonder to come to a stop earlier than anyone else. Either you run out of gas or just hit the breaks because you cannot see clearly around you anymore. But what if there no way to hit the accelerator again? How can I get moving again? “Well, here I am sitting now, she thought, in a traffic jam. In front of a constant red light. Who really controls the signal?” She will not find out.

Everyone told her: do not get into that car. Do not hit the gas. Do not think about change, think about what you have. Your car might not be the fastest but it gets there, eventually. So they said. “But where?”, she asked the ducks in front of her and threw a whole slice. The ducks and pidgeons came from every direction, fighting for the white bread.

“I do not want to feel the pain anymore, why am I even crying? I knew the risk, I took it. I enjoyed it. But now, I am sobbing with toast in my hand. Actually, this reminds me of something we always had for lunch, after skipping breakfast. This horrible thing that looks amazing from the outside. Crispy, deliciously smelling. Warmed up in a beat, for your pleasure. You take a bite and it stings you with the heat of the sun. Tongue burned, palate ruined. But there it is, the savoury smell of grilled cheese. Yeah, now that I am thinking about it, still all was like a hot pocket.”

She sniffed her nose, smiled a little, emptied the whole package of toast on the ground and leaned back on the bench.

“Fucking hot pockets”.

We all get asked at some point what we want to become once we grow up. And we answer “astronaut”, “firefighter”, “someone rich”, “someone famous”, “author” or “someone with my own garden where I can grow my favorite vegetable”. I mean, whatever makes you happy. But who would say “the person stamping tickets in a rustic bus in a post-Soviet country”?

Well maybe this guy stamping my ticket right now. Who knows? Who am I to judge? Actually, it’s more challenging and surprising than it seems. He is there, cramming his way through the crowd. Always there, known to everyone who regularly takes this route. It’s the same price for everyone, same ticket every time. There is comfort in it. He knows every bump in the street. Every crossing and just 5 seconds later, he knows where to hold on because the bus is taking a massive bump in the road. A friendly tap on the back by the guy who is coming back from the pub. A little smile from the woman who just finished her shift.

We are all here in the same boat, bus in this case. It’s familiar faces and new ones. Maybe he is looking around, seeing the same faces with different expressions. He is the one who can detect mood swings. Bad day at work? He can probably tell the difference. Happy occasion? He will know it. But you won’t. That’s the difference. He will even know when you are new to this bus line. So when I am looking around, looking at him, I cannot help but feel foolish about my estimations. I can write whatever I want but I won’t come close to what he knows.

So sit down, guy stamping my ticket. It would be my honour to have a beer with you. Share your insights, your knowledge, your experience and understanding. Or don’t. Who am I to expect anything or judge? But maybe, just maybe, I will learn something. Even from your silence. So have a drink with me.

And all I am left with, is to say,

Thank you.